


Flashfic: Ashe and Fran

by Cadjet001



Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: BDSM, Community: femslash_kink, F/F, Master/Slave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 17:34:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9335321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cadjet001/pseuds/Cadjet001
Summary: Written for the Femslash kink meme here: https://femslash-kink.dreamwidth.org/19252.html?view=2936372&posted=1#cmt2936372Done in one sitting with decade old memories of the game.





	

A slave sat on the throne of Dalmasca. 

None knew of this mockery when they saw it, because the slave was cunningly disguised as a queen. She wore a headdress just like a queen, and rich jewels on her fingers to match it. She wore white vests with gold trim, skirts of shining moth silk and boots of saurian leather. There was none of a slave’s look to her; no paint, no dye, no plump curve of the limbs. She looked like a queen, with hard eyes, slender frame and simply dressed hair. She behaved like a queen, holding audiences, hearing petitions, signing decrees in to law. She even had a queen’s name; Ashelia B’Nargin Dalmasca. So complete was the deception that for much of the time the slave believed that she was a queen herself. 

But she could not always forget. Sometimes, while she sat on her throne in front of the highest dignitaries of the realm, the truth crept over her like a warm hand up her spine The slave would suddenly remember the pain of defiance and the ecstasy of submission. She would remember the gold pins in her nipples and feel them cold against her skin. Her mistress’ fingers would rove over her body like ghosts and Ashelia B’Nargin Dalmasca would feel as though she stood on the deck of an airship in the moment before it fell dead from the sky. One of the will see through me, she thought, one of them will see that their queen is a sky pirate’s whore. The idea of being exposed for what she was terrified and thrilled her both at once. The slave’s imagination ran away with her in those moments. Her mistress could appear at the door, could call her out for what she was, could strip her clothes from her body and leave her naked in the sight of the realm. Her mistress could sit down on the throne, bend Ashelia B’Nargin Dalmasca over her knee and spank her bare behind until she was reduced to a red-faced, red-arsed child before the eyes of the world. Her mistress could march her through the streets of Rabanastre on a leash, bundle her in to a cage in the hold of her airship and fly away with her to some distant land to live out the rest of her life as a naked concubine. The slave’s face would turn pink in those moments and she would sit clasping and unclasping her hands in an agony of anticipation. Two years in to her life as a slave, no-one had challenged her.

The sky pirate was named Fran. She was a Viera, woman of the forest, with the body of a goddess, hair the colour of cream and skin the colour of chocolate. Fran slipped in and out of her slave’s life with the wind. Sometimes she would stay for a day, sometimes for a week, never for much longer. With each visit, the slave had to beg to be subjugated all over again. They would find time alone together and the slave would strip, kneel and kiss her pirate lady’s feet. In between kisses she would offer her services as a maid, bedmate, plaything or footstool, whatever the sky pirate wanted of her. It was Fran’s delight then to inspect her like a Chocobo. She would hold her slave’s mouth open and mount her teeth, survey her body for blemishes, and bend her at the waist to examine her intimate parts. The slave rarely pleasured herself; her mistress’ probing fingers often ended a week, a month or more of abstinence. Fran adored the noises she made as her fast was broken.

Once they were alone in the royal apartments and the slave was sure that she was a slave, Fran would put her to work. Her orders and demands were many and varied. Sometimes she would order her slave to dance for her. Sometimes she would have her cook, or drink with her, or tell her all of the worries and concerns that she picked up while disguised as Queen Ashelia B’Nargin Dalmasca. Once she sat by a window, tucked the slave’s head between her thighs and let her lick hungrily while they listened to a troupe of musicians in the streets below. On another occasion she made the slave count all of the beans in a bag of rozzarian coffee, then reddened her with a slipper for not being fast enough. Whatever orders Fran gave her visits always ended the same way; herself and her slave lying exhausted and blissful in each other’s arms. Both knew that each tryst could well be the last one. Fran might return to find that Queen Ashelia had decided to marry, or Queen Ashelia might hear that Fran was not going to return at all. But such fears felt very, very far away as they basked in the warmth of each other’s bodies and the shared sent of lovemaking. Godless, war-weary Ivalice might seem to spin a little faster every day, but lying in the sun together the pirate and her slave were content.


End file.
